In the Lion's Den
by lithugraph
Summary: AU: "A man behind a desk is just a man. Put a uniform on him and suddenly he thinks he's God." Arrested for crimes against the State, Gilbert Beilschmidt awaits his trial in a Stasi prison. There he meets fellow prisoner, Roderich Edelstein, and must choose between sacrificing himself or another man's life for a chance at freedom. Gil's second person POV. NOT a reader insert.
1. Teil I

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 **Löwenhöhle - Teil I  
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 ** _A/N_** _Warning! This story is_ _ **not**_ _intended to be a torture fic, but it does contain mentions of psychological as well as physical abuse/torture in a historical context. I have tried to keep things as accurate as possible and will be posting articles as well as other research tools on my Hetalia tumblr account (see profile)._

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 **East Berlin, 1978**

You see the white truck parked outside. It's been there all day. You've watched it from the side of your curtains. (The fabric doesn't quite touch the wall and betrays you by letting in those slanting rays of sun that blind you every morning). It's betraying you again, the curtain.

You bite off a fingernail. Then another. And another. You watch the white truck.

It's nondescript. Just a stupid white truck with doors like a refrigerator. The words on the side say _Fleisch._ How appropriate, you think. You light a cigarette. Probably the last one you'll ever smoke. And wait.

You tell yourself they might not be coming for you. There are hundreds of apartments in this tower bloc. Hundreds. But no grocer's. No restaurants either. Still, you think they might not be coming for you. As the sun sets, you almost believe it. Almost. Until you see the men leave the truck and enter your building.

You have minutes, if that. You find some paper and a pen and write a note to your brother. Can't be anything more. Not enough time.

_Ludwig, Do not come looking for me. Whatever happens, remember I love you. I have been taken.

You hide it under his pillow, hoping they won't search the place. But they don't need to. The evidence has already been printed, circulated, and read. You wonder, as you close his door, if he had anything to do with it. You know it's absurd to think. You know your brother loved you too, yet you never failed to miss the looks he sent you as you banged out another column on your typewriter late at night. He was the ever faithful brother. Just like your mother. You were the defective one. Like your father, you suppose. You hardly knew him, and she never spoke of him. Never. Even when you asked. Even when the cancer finally took her. Not one word.

When the door opens, you stand there nonplussed. It is not a violent affair. They don't want it to be, and neither do you. You think (hope) it may work out to your favor. You go willingly, letting your hands be cuffed. They load you into the truck. _Fleisch._ Meat. And take you through a dizzying maze of city streets, though they really needn't have bothered. When you see the building, you know where you are.

Still. That doesn't keep your heels from digging in.

The guards hook their hands under your arm-pits and drag you forward to get you to move.

Your feet are lead as you enter. You notice, with a sick feeling in your stomach, your shoes hardly make a sound. It's as if you no longer exist. At this point, you may as well not.

The chair you're seated in is uncomfortable. No padding. A hideous brown and tan weave. A special cloth underneath. Though you try not to, you sweat just thinking about it. Your body betrays you, just like the curtains did. You've heard about this chair but you never thought the rumors true. How ironic to finally find out.

The interrogator comes in. He questions you. Maybe hits you. And questions you some more. You don't know. You don't know. You don't know.

The next thing you _do_ know, you're in an ill-fitting blue jumpsuit. The legs of the pants too short for your height. They chafe and ride up, making standing uncomfortable. But you have to stand. It is day. You know that from the light filtering through the frosted glass window in your cell. At least the sun can no longer blind you, you wryly think. Then the guard outside your door barks at you to straighten your back. You do, wincing at the pull of fabric. The moment the peephole closes, you slouch again.

The darkened glass tells you it's night. But the light bulb in the cell comes on every ten minutes. Twelve. Ten. Twelve. Twelve. Ten. You drive yourself mad trying to discern a pattern. You try to sleep, though you're made to lie like a corpse, on your back with your hands at your side and on top of the covers. Uncomfortable. You want to roll over but you can't. The light bulb flicks off. The cell is dark. Your eyes are heavy. They slip shut and you almost, almost drift off to sleep. Until the light bulb flicks on again. Your retinas burn.

You're not allowed outside. You're not special enough for that. All you know is day and night. No months. No seasons. You curse yourself for not finding a way of keeping a calendar the moment you got there. You try to think back to when that was. Autumn, maybe. Or spring. You don't know. Don't remember. It was a day. And what is but a day in the grand scheme of things? (You never should have taken something so insignificant for granted). All you remember is the trees were bare and the weather chilly. It could have been late autumn. It could have been early spring. You don't know. You don't know. You don't know you don't know you don't know...

A paper is being pushed towards you. You're seated in the chair again and a paper is being pushed towards you. You reach out a hand, surprised to see it shaking. (Surprised to see it so thin). Your lips are chapped. Your mouth, dry. You feel the ache in your throat as it tries to relieve its thirst. You swallow thick globulous balls of saliva-mucus, hoping maybe you'll choke on one, while your interrogator - The Man Behind the Desk - drinks a glass of ice water. You want to ask for a sip, though you know it's forbidden. Besides, the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a wheezing, rattling breath.

The lights in the room are too bright. Is it day or night? You don't know.

A pen is beside the paper. Black and glistening. Your eyes burn. Your throat burns. The Man Behind the Desk takes a sip of water. The gulp echoes in your ears as he swallows.

You pick up the pen.

And sign.

(You hardly recognize your own writing).

The Man smiles, adjusts his thick black glasses, glittering like the pen. He puts the water in the middle of the table. You lunge for it, drinking it down in noisy, greedy gulps.

_Easy, One-two-eight. You'll make yourself sick.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The skin is dry and cracked. You wonder how long you've been there. Longer than a day but less than a week? A month? Two...three...four...one two thr-eight?

Resilience. One thing you've always prided in yourself. Your resilience. Strength. (Stubborn).

You look at the glossy black pen on the table. And hope you were there for longer than a month before you cracked.

_Thank you for your confession, One-two-eight. As soon as it's processed we can start your trial.

The Man takes the pen and paper back. Your body makes a movement, as if to lunge across the table again and rip up your betrayal. But you sit there and take another sip of water.

_Is there anything else you need, One-two-eight?

You look up briefly before remembering to school your eyes to look anywhere but at him. You want to ask why he keeps calling you that. But instead you say:

_What's the date?

The Man puts the folder with your confession into his briefcase, closing the lid with a snap. He pushes his glasses up his nose and presses both hands flat on the table.

_March. Ninety seventy-eight. You haven't even been here a month. Good day, One-two-eight.

The Man Behind the Desk leaves and you want to cry. Would, you think, had you anything more than blood and bone within you.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

More than a year passes. And you've aged far beyond your twenty-seven years. You can feel it. (And you can see it when The Man Behind the Desk allows you to look in his little mirror, if you've been especially good). Today, though, is different. Your time spent with him has allowed you to read his moods. You know him perhaps even better than he knows himself. And you know, when you see him, today is different.

But you're smart. You don't let on that you know. You enter the interrogation room and wait.

The Man glances up, giving you permission to speak.

_My trial? you say.

He shakes his head.

_Something has come up, he says.

He lights a cigarette. And hands it to you. He does this when he knows you're not going to like what he has to say.

_There is...information we need you to get.

You want to throw your head back and scream. Scream over and over again. You want to punch the cinder block wall until your hand breaks. But you don't. You school your face to remain impassive, taking a deliberate puff to give your mind time to get itself under control.

_It's been a year...

The Man rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers, watching you. You know better than to cross him, but to not put up some form of protest would seem...suspect. Checks and balances. Too stubborn, and they beat you. Too eager, and they know you're working the system.

_This case has been particularly difficult, he says.

You roll the cigarette between your fingers, not wanting to know, not wanting to ask.

_Three months. And not a word.

You find it hard to believe. No one lasts more than a month. No one.

_More stubborn than you were, The Man says, giving you a pointed look.

You take a long drag, exhale through your nose while he waits for your answer. You can't say no. Really can't. You know it, and he knows it. But, as if to make sure, he slides a folder out of his case. Your eyes catch on it immediately. It's just like all the others. Beige. A tab sticking out with a name on. You can never read the name, though. The script is too small and your eyes are loosing their far-sightedness from not having worn your glasses in so long. (You never liked wearing them, but why did you leave them behind? Stupid. You'll be blind one day).

A muscle in your arm twitches. The Man Behind the Desk has seen it. A self-satisfied smirk.

_Then again, One-two-eight, there is the...issue of your brother.

He clears his throat, flips open the folder, holding it at an angle so you can't see anymore than beige beige beige.

It's an old trick. One you know well. It's probably not even Ludwig's file. Ludwig probably doesn't even have a file. Good, faithful Ludwig. (You tell yourself this every time, yet it still does not stop you from falling for it).

Your voice is a whisper.

_Ludwig is...is loyal. He's not like me.

The Man Behind the Desk shuts the folder, glaring at you over the beige. You watch him. And wait.

_That is for us to decide.

A man behind a desk is just a man. Put a uniform on him and suddenly he thinks he's God. And so do you. You can't help but not. It is he who controls your fate. You are powerless. You know this. But he likes to remind you in case you forget. Even your words, your confession, are no guarantee of salvation. He pushes the ashtray across the desk. It slides and rattles, the sound making you startle. It's a signal. You've crossed a line. You put out the cigarette, not even half finished.

_You have a skill, One-two-eight.

The Man stands, sits on the desk in a would-be casual manner.

_You know this. And you know why we need it. Your case _would_ have gone to trial...had this...incident...not come up. Don't blame us. Really. We can't help it the accused is being uncooperative. We've tried everything. Believe me. We didn't want to ask anymore of you, but...well, if we had your talent, then this whole conversation would be unnecessary.

You breathe deeply and swallow. It's the same thing over and over. Just one more. Just _one_ more. Just one _more._...

If you were the same man you were a year ago, you'd make a joke and ask them to compensate you for your services. Say they ought to hire you when you get released. (As it is, you're fairly rewarded anyway: Time in the exercise yard. A glance in a mirror. A cigarette).

But they all come with a cost. Another man's life. Another man's truths told to The Men Behind Desks. You have a talent. Yes. For getting people to trust you. You don't even have to try. It's something that just happens. It's what made you such a smash journalist. (But at least when you worked for the newspaper, you were honest. Too honest...)

The Man is still waiting for your answer. Your eyes fall on the folder again. You think of your brother. And you give the tiniest of nods.

_Congratulations, One-two-eight. You have a new roommate.

He flashes a smile before calling the guards to take you away.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

Your cell number is 128. The source of your name there, within that place. Your real name only exists in your file - along with the other names whose lives you've helped ruin. They have their hooks in you again, God help them.

You stand against the wall in your cell and shut your eyes briefly, trying not to think.

Your cell door opens and you startle, realizing you fell asleep standing up. But the guards are not there for you. Instead, they shove in a man with an untidy mop of brown hair and glasses. He catches himself on the sink, pausing a moment before righting himself. He takes in the small cell, the two beds with barely five inches of space between them, the frosted glass window. He brushes himself down and looks at you. One of the lenses in his glasses is cracked. He takes his place against the wall opposite you, fingers tapping a rhythm against his thighs.

As you watch him, you again find it hard to believe this man lasted through three months of interrogation. He's skinny. His jumpsuit too big. He's had to roll up the sleeves to keep them from falling over his hands. But it's not just his size. He's younger than you. At least three or four years. Maybe the same age as Ludwig. And he has this air of refinement, of good breeding. You doubt he even comes from the East. And you decide to use that as your jumping off point.

But there's something else. He's skittish. His eyes dart around the cell, look you up and down up and down, but never _at_ you. He chews his lip, fingers never stop tapping.

His eyes dart to the bed. You recognize the temptation. And within minutes, he sinks down onto it. He curls onto his side, knees drawing up in a perfect round ball, and lets out a moan as if he's never felt anything so comfortable.

Idiot, you think.

You shouldn't want to help him, but...it's also part of your job - getting him to trust you.

_Hey! you hiss. _What do you think you're doing, huh? Get up!

You push yourself off the wall, taking a few steps to hover over him.

_You need to stand. Get up!

A hand lashes out, primal. You just manage to avoid the claw-like fingers.

_You can't lie down. Get. Up!

The hand strikes again, but this time you're ready for it. You grab his wrist, twisting it back, hearing the pop of his shoulder. He lets out a cry as you release his arm. He scrambles up, sitting now on the bed, his back to the wall and knees tucked under his chin. The look in his eyes is wild.

_Up! you say again.

He stares back at you. Frozen. His fingers find his hair. He rakes. And pulls. Maybe you've pushed too hard...

You try a different tactic. Gentler. You make a motion to help him up. He darts to his feet - a rabbit - fairly avoiding your hands.

You step back, sinking against your wall. At least he's standing, you think numbly. He starts tapping his fingers against his legs again. He's turned toward the wall, as if he could disappear into it. And he's humming.

It occurs to you, you have yet to hear him speak. Again, you wonder where he comes from, or if he even understands you. You once shared your cell with a Pole who pretended not to know a word of German, hoping he could find something out about you to use as leverage. But, as always, you discovered his secret first. Sometimes you can still hear him shouting _zdrajcą! zdrajcą!_ You didn't need to speak his language to know what he called you – it's what they all call you. You push the thought away. Focus instead on your new cellmate.

_German? you ask.

He stops his fingers tapping and looks at you again.

There is something in his eyes. The Man called it stubbornness, but you know that's not right. You know it because you've seen it and felt it before. He's fighting something. The struggle of consequences. Whether or not it's safe to answer...

_Austrian, he eventually says.

His voice is ragged. Like it hasn't been used in weeks. You notice his lips are as chapped as yours once were. Thirst. One thing you will never forget.

_Hey, you want...want some water?

He watches you, looking for the trick.

You nod to the sink. He looks at it, as if he's seeing it for the first time (despite being nearly thrown into it by the guards hardly an hour before).

_It...it works? He flinches after he says it, as if he should not have asked a question. He turns back to the wall, hunching his shoulders up.

You make your way over slowly, careful not to startle him, and turn the handle. Ice-cold water pours out and he looks at you as if you're God. He sticks his head under the flow and gulps it down.

_Easy, you say and make a motion with your hand. He sees it and bolts upright again, swiping his arm across his mouth, the look in his eyes feral.

You turn the tap off and he looks like he could kill you.

_Sorry. But I...you don't want to make yourself sick.

You go back to stand against your wall. He does the same, watching you the whole time. He starts tapping once again.

You sigh to yourself, rub your forehead and think they've damaged him far beyond your skill set. But you've only had an hour or two with him, at most. Hardly enough time to draw any conclusions. (Though you know a day lasts a month, a month lasts a year, and a year is...your lifetime).

_Why are you doing that? you ask.

He looks at you, fingers momentarily stilled.

_What?

_That. You nod at his hands.

He looks down then back up at you, as if the answer is so obvious.

_It's my piano.

You look at him, certain he's lost it.

_I'm playing Chopin. See? He holds his hands in front of him, an invisible keyboard, and starts to play.

For a moment, you see the keys move. (You know from experience the hallucinations caused by dehydration).

_I'm...I'm afraid I don't know that one, you say.

_It's a nocturne. I play it a lot.

_I'm sorry. I don't know much classical music.

His hands stop. He rests them on his thighs.

_That is indeed unfortunate. How do you pass the time?

You stare at him, stunned. No one's ever asked you that before, much less in the way he just did - as if you were having a polite conversation over dinner.

_I have a whole catalog of music in here, he says and points to his head. _I listen to it. Over and over and over. It reminds me...

He trails off, the look on his face distant. The finger at his head twines in his hair. He twists. And pulls.

_Hey! Don't do that - don't -

His eyes snap up at the sound of your voice. He looks around in a panic.

_I'm...I'm not supposed to be here! I don't want to be here! I'm a musician! I...

He starts to pace, muttering the same thing over and over again until he stops and stands in the middle of the cell, arms encircling himself.

_I want to go home. This isn't my cell. I want to go home! I want _my_ cell!

You approach cautiously, hands splayed to show you mean no harm.

_Hey...it's okay...

He backs away, all the way into the wall. He shakes his head back and forth back and forth. You stop. Lower your hands. And watch. He turns back to the wall. Turns until he's facing it, pressing his forehead and fingers into it. His shoulders quake.

_It's okay, you say again, though whether to comfort yourself or him, it's hard to say which. _Why don't...why don't you play me some more Chopin, huh? H-how's that sound?

The man shakes his head. _No, he sniffs. _There's no point.

You drift back to your wall, arms folded, and watch him.

_I'm sorry, the man says at length. _Sometimes I...I forget.

He slowly turns back around. His face, tear-streaked. You push off the wall, wanting to help, but he shrinks away at your motion, shaking his head.

_Don't. P-please.

_Sorry.

You lean back against your wall.

He rests his head against his, staring down at the sink.

_C-can I have some more water?

_Sure. But you don't need to ask me. It's your sink as much as mine. Just...go easy, okay?

You let him turn the handle. As if to show him he does have control over it. (It is now something he owns and he can trust you). He gives a tiny start at the sound of the water, but in seconds he's cupped his hands and is drinking. By now, you think you know what they've done to him. You pray you're not right. For the first time. You _hope_ you're not right.

He turns off the water and goes to stand by his wall, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. You stare at the linoleum, your jaw trembling as you ask:

_Which cell were you in before?

He looks at you. And it is then you notice the faint discolorations around his neck and cheek.

_Were you allowed to speak?

He gives his head the slightest of shakes.

_Do you know when they brought you?

He nods, lips barely forming the words: _September twenty-sixth. A month before my birthday.

Your hands fall to your thighs, trying to keep yourself from collapsing. You feel suddenly winded. If what The Man Behind the Desk told you was true, if he's really been there for three months, then that makes it Christmas, give or take a few days.

When you feel able to breathe again, you right yourself and edge between the beds, going to the window. You put your hand on the frosted glass. It is cold as ice.

_Jesus, you breathe.

You look at the man. He's watching you. He's been in solitary confinement for three months. Of this, you have no doubt. Three months without any human contact, save that of his interrogator. It's a miracle he's even halfway sane.

As you look at him, you realize something else: It's been nearly two years since you were taken. And you'll be damned if you spend another one here, aiding them in their dirty work.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

Your days pass in monotony. It's been two months since your new cellmate arrived. (The Man Behind the Desk allowed you a look at his calendar the last time he questioned you). The Austrian seems to be getting used to the idea of people again. Progress, you're happy to report. He doesn't flinch away when you get close, even let you put your hand on his shoulder the other day. He tried telling you his name, but you put a stop to that. Though you did not tell The Man that part. (You've been through this too many times. You don't need to know their names). You now call him the Austrian, but only to him and never to The Man Behind the Desk. You are both One-two-eight, and the Man knows the difference.

Sometimes you just stare at the Austrian as he stares back at you. Sometimes you're taken for questioning. Sometimes he is. Whenever he returns from an interrogation, he is always worse for wear. He stands, facing the wall and will not speak for days. (You get angry with The Man and want to tell him so, want to tell him he's ruining everything you've worked for. But you don't). When the Austrian comes round again, you talk. But it's only ever the same conversation. And you know why they think he's guilty. Hell, you even think so, too. There are two things about him you know for certain: He is Austrian and he is a musician. His fingers never stop tapping, though their rhythm varies. He's hummed a few songs for you - some you recognize, some you don't. (When The Man smacks you for not trying harder, you often hum the tunes, but only to yourself and only in your head). There is one thing about him, though, that you can't quite believe: His reason for being in East Berlin. He insists it was for research, to finish his dissertation. The college student story checks out. The Man has verified it. But both you and he think there is something more. You've seen your share of tourists - and students. The curious ones. The ignorant. The ones who think their government and their status as a foreign national will protect them. They invariably get caught on the wrong side of East German law. And the Austrian strikes you as more than just some gawking foreigner.

You know what you must do, to get him to tell you why he's there. You know it. And you're loathe to do it. The Man knows it too. That's why he keeps showing you his calendar, with the days crossed out, counting down ever closer to your two-year anniversary.

The trick to any well-crafted lie is simple: You start by telling the truth. And you omit any details that would make you look guilty to the party you're trying to win over. Never embellish, unless you absolutely have to - and if you do, never over do it. Remember: it needs to be believable within the context of what truth you've told. You've always had a way with people. A way of getting what you want. People have always been your favorite book. One of the things you enjoyed, as a journalist: Finding out what made them tick. From your time with the Austrian, you've come to realize he still has a shred of humanity left. It's why he still carries himself with dignity, why he plays his music. And that bit of humanity is what you need. He cannot know what you are. He must come to pity you.

You become stubborn.

The Man Behind the Desk has no choice but to have you beaten. He cannot know of your plan, of your tactics. Otherwise, what is the point of you?

The guards drag you to your cell. You'd almost forgotten what their fists felt like. But you're valuable. They need you. They make sure you don't lose consciousness.

They drop you on your hands and knees just inside the door. A string of bloody dribble hangs from your lip. It takes you a minute to gather strength enough to stand. And even when you do, you cannot stand straight. Your ribs and stomach are too bruised.

The Austrian cannot look at you. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head back and forth, fingers tapping against his leg.

It's working, you think.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You've learned there are some things you can control. But others are simply the byproduct of nature. Instinct. Being human.

Your body betrays you that night. While you lie there, on your stiff wooden bed, bruised and in pain, it has the audacity to betray you. It's something you can't help. Something it cries out for. Needs, like water or food. The ache hurts almost as much as your beaten limbs. You glance over at the Austrian. He's kept his eyes shut tight ever since you were returned. Now is no different, even with the light bulb burning overhead.

You exhale. A ragged breath from your throat. Something pricks at the corner of your eyes. The throb between your legs reminds you. You don't want to answer it. You try shifting your knees, one over the other, trying to suppress it. You just want some fucking rest. You put your hands into your hair and twist. And pull. (Sometimes, it's too much).

You remember your one cellmate who did it nearly every morning before relieving himself on the toilet. It was bad enough you had to watch him shit and piss, but did you really need to see him masturbate, too?

The light bulb flicks off. And you have no choice. You slip your hand under the sheet and take hold of yourself. You bite back the urge to moan. It's disgusting. Something you shouldn't want in a place like this. But you can't help it. Your body has needs. You are only human.

It doesn't take much before you're over the edge, body twitching and jerking as you release. You want to curl on your side and cry. But you can't. The light bulb is back on. The peephole slot opens. You stare at the ceiling until it slides closed again. Your chest hitches as you silently weep.

The Austrian is watching you.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

_Soon.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

_Soon.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

_Soon.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

The longer you take, the more you question. Doubt. He is not like the others. Not deceitful or quick to turn. There is an air of otherness about him, like he was blown in by accident, caught in a bad wind. A songbird forced into a cage. You listen when he hums, make up songs to go along with the fingers tapping against his legs.

You find you enjoy his company.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

_...Soon.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

_...One-two-eight?

_...One-two-

_Soon.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You're quite certain that beating will be your last.

The guards haul you to your cell and drop you on your knees. It takes all your strength just to breathe. They're starting to be careless. (And maybe so are you).

Black dots swim before your eyes. You pitch to the side. Your bruised shoulder smacks against linoleum. You cry out.

The Austrian rushes to you, crouches before you. His hand is on your face, tilting it up. You blink. The black dots recede long enough for you to see him. You are quite certain you've never seen a face more beautiful. Your lips pull into a smile moments before you black out completely.

You come to minutes later, shaking and panicky, forgetting for a moment where you are until it all floods back.

The Austrian helps you to your feet. He takes you over to the sink. You wrap your arms around the basin, using it for support, as he cups his hands and brings water to your mouth, coaxing you to drink. The water freezes your throat, chokes you, but you drink it anyway. He helps you over to your bed. It is not lights-out yet, but you're too tired, too sore to protest or even try to stand. Let them yell at you through the peephole. You've been there for two goddamn-long years.

The lights go off at ten o'clock. Then promptly back on twelve minutes later. Then off. Then on. At some point, you finally succumb to sleep.

You awake. Perhaps hours later. The frosted glass window is still dark. And it is dark in your cell. You feel a presence near you and turn to see the Austrian standing in the space between your beds.

_What is it? you grumble.

_Cold, he says.

_It's always cold.

_I know. But this is different. This is _real_ cold.

You push yourself up to sit. You feel it too. It is colder than it should be. You glance at the little window, hoping it might tell you something. There are frost crystals around the edge. You scrape a fingernail over them. They are on the inside.

You look up at the light bulb.

_When was that last on?

_I don't know, the Austrian says.

You wonder if there was a power failure - or if this is some new trick. The Austrian gives a violent shudder.

_Get back in bed.

He shakes his head. _It's too cold.

You know what he's asking without him having to say it.

You sigh, eyes flicking to the peephole, then the light bulb.

_All right. Get in.

The Austrian brings his blankets over, piling them on yours, then slides under with you. His body is cold. You feel it even through the jumpsuit. And wonder how long he's been standing there. You shift onto your side.

He brings his hands up, cradling your face. His fingers are ice but they feel good against your swollen cheek and jaw. (You had forgotten the touch of another man could be so soft). His lips brush against yours and all you can think of are butterfly wings. You let go of a ragged breath. And kiss him back.

_I have a confession, he whispers, his breath hot against your lips.

His body is warming under the blankets, warming against you. The beginnings of arousal. It's taking all of your effort to keep your own body in check.

_I am not a priest. I don't need your sins.

_Yes. You do. It's why they put me in here.

His thumbs stroke your cheeks. He breathes deep.

You feel his breath. Feel it slip into your mouth and down your throat.

You breathe the same air.

He takes your mouth again. The light press of his fingers plays a song against your skin before he breaks the kiss.

_I've known for a while, now. I can't stand to see what they're doing to you. I know what they want, but...I c-can't...

The cell is too dark to see, but you know he's looking at you.

A finger traces along your hairline. You melt into it against your will. (You _had_ forgotten. How soft a touch could be).

_I would make something up if I knew it could help you.

_Don't, you say, taking his hand and kissing his fingers. _Don't.

_Why not? he sniffs. _It's all the same to them.

You entwine your fingers with his, bringing his hand to your chest.

_Are you innocent?

_Yes.

_Are you?

_Yes! Knowing that is the one thing that's kept me sane. My only sin is _this._

He kisses you. Deeper this time, tongue dancing around yours. Seconds turn into minutes. Minutes become hours. (A day lasts a month, a month lasts a year, and a year is...)

You pull away panting, your breathing ragged. Your chest heaves, caught somewhere between supreme elation and blinding rage. You would tear this whole goddamn institution down and take him away, away from this place, had you any strength. He is too beautiful for it. A songbird...

_What about you? he says.

His voice, the brush of his fingers against your cheek, brings you back. You bring your hand up to card through his hair. How you _wish_ you could see his face. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

_What about me?

_Are you innocent?

_...No, you breathe. _My guilt is immeasurable.

_How long have you been here?

_Two years. They didn't like what I was writing.

You can feel him frowning in the dark. His hands ghost over your face, trace every contour. He kisses you. Kisses your brow, your cheek. Breathe the same air. You had forgotten how soft a touch could be. His hands hold you while your body quietly quakes. He hums you back to sleep with a melody. You think it's Chopin.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You spend some nights like that. In each other's bed. The nights when it's too cold to sleep alone and the light bulb does not turn on. In the back of your mind, you _know_ it's a trick. You may be smart, but you're also greedy. And have not felt the tender caress of human hands in a long, long time.

He is gentle with you. Careful of your bruises and cuts when he takes you. It's strange, you think. He is younger, smaller. (You were always used to being the one in control). But you have hardly the strength. As you lie there, with him in your arms, you forget to be disgusted by it, by your body's carnal needs, in this horrific place. You don't know if he loves you or if you love him. It does not matter. Gradually you remember there are some things the cruelty of man can never touch.

You should have known it would never last.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

The day they come for both of you, your mind starts to whir. You're trying to think of a plan and some way to communicate it to him. But you are both marched down the corridor in single file, flanked front and back by guards. You think they're taking you to separate interrogation rooms. But they don't.

The Man Behind the Desk grins salaciously when he sees you. There are folders stacked on his desk, one jutting out just so to get your attention. Your blood runs cold. You scalp prickles. You feel your body shutting down, going numb. Your mind, blank, save for one thought: _Ludwig_.

The Man motions you to stand by him. You obey.

The guards sit the Austrian at the table. There is a device on it. A tape-recorder. And no microphone. Your heart sinks past your navel as you realize. This isn't an interrogation. It's entrapment. There is only one thing that could be on the cassette.

Your eyes flutter closed. You try to focus on your breathing. Your heart skips a beat when the click of the recording starts. They have everything. Everything since that first cold, cold night. Your eyes open. You look at the Austrian. His face is stricken.

You hear the rustle of blankets, the wet sounds of your kisses, dead air, words without context. The Austrian's eyes flick to yours. You give the tiniest shake of your head. You and he both know what was really said.

And suddenly a plan is forming. The trick to any well-crafted lie is simple: You start by telling the truth...

The Austrian looks at you again as the recording switches over. More wet kisses, twin moans. He's nervous, you can tell. You give him a pointed look, raise your eyebrow a millimeter. Don't give in. Don't tell them anything.

_I think we've heard enough.

The Man leans over, presses the stop button with a self-satisfied smile.

_Well, well, One-two-eight. In addition to being a threat to the state, shall we add sodomy to your file too?

He speaks to the Austrian.

_From what we've been able to discern, you were the instigator, yes?

You trace the movement of the Austrian's throat as he swallows. He tries to keep his face impassive, but a few beads of perspiration along his hairline betray him.

_If you wish to further incriminate yourself, by all means, remain quiet.

The Austrian's eyes flick to yours. So do The Man's.

_And what do you say, One-two-eight? Were you a willing participant?

His finger taps the stack of folders. His smirk, malicious. He wants you to deny it. To say you were sodomized against your will. If he can't get the Austrian for crimes against the state, then he'll have him for _that_ at least….

_Yes, you say.

The man's brow rises slightly though he's trying to remain nonplussed.

_You admit to participating in these acts?

_Yes.

_Willingly?

_Yes.

The Austrian looks about to protest, but before he can open his mouth, you say:

_Give me the paper and I'll sign it now.

A vein in The Man's temple looks about to burst. He turns his back to the room, to the guards, and whispers in your ear:

_What the hell do you think you're doing?

_What you want me to do, you hiss behind clenched teeth. _I _need_ his trust.

The Man studies you, looking for a tell, to see whether or not what you say is true. He looks back over his shoulder at the Austrian, then turns back to you. His breath is unpleasantly hot against your ear.

_You will watch this.

He turns to the guards and nods to the Austrian's fingers, splayed on the table.

_Break them.

He steps back, lighting a cigarette.

Two guards hold the Austrian by the wrists. The other two hold him in the chair by his shoulders. The Austrian's eyes widen in panic. His breathing quickens. You have mere seconds to get his attention.

_Look at me, look at me! you shout. _Don't look at them. Look at me!

Your voice cracks as your shout becomes a plea.

His eyes latch on yours. His lip trembles. He wants to speak. Wants to confess. But you won't let him. You can't tell him not to speak. You can't tell him anything except to keep looking at you.

And he does.

He looks at you as he screams and screams.

You want to tear your gaze away, but you know you can't. You cannot betray him like that.

The guard breaks four fingers before The Man tells him to stop and orders you both back to your cell to think things over. The Austrian is barely able to keep himself upright from the pain. He cradles his damaged hand and curls up against his wall. The look he gives you is one of utter abhorrence. Damning. But you dare not risk telling him anything now, knowing your cell is bugged.

You wait until night, when the light bulb goes off.

_You were so brave, you whisper, your lips centimeters from his ear so they can't hear. You place a tentative hand on his arm.

He jerks it away.

You bite your lip, but press on, your words a rushed breath.

_You cannot tell them anything. Do you understand? They think you're guilty of something. Won't rest until they prove it. They need a confession. But do not give it to them. This will all be over soon.

You hear him swallow.

_Leave me alone, he says. He curls up on his side, holding his hand to his chest.

You slide back into your bed, hoping you're doing the right thing.

The light bulb flicks on again.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

Days pass. The Austrian passes them much like before, when he first was sent to you. He stands against the wall, pressing his forehead to it. He only taps with one hand now. And doesn't hum.

He won't last much longer. You know it. And you pray the guards come for you first. Else it will all have been for naught.

You estimate a week to have gone by.

No one has come for you. Or him.

You notice they've started feeding you at irregular intervals. Your meager rations cut even further.

The peephole hasn't opened.

They want you to think they've forgotten about you. It almost works. You find yourself staring at the door, waiting, wondering.

You feel yourself weakening. The Austrian isn't faring well either. You manage to convince him to take some of your rations. He needs them more. It will be a month before his hand heals...if it ever really does.

You stand at the wall, trying to hold yourself upright, but the weight of your empty stomach pulls you down. You try to satisfy it with the icy water from the sink. It's relief, but only temporary.

You notice the Austrian has his eyes closed, a sublime smile on his face. His good hand waves airily before him.

_What are you listening to? you ask, your voice a labored breath.

He opens his eyes, focuses on you.

_Beethoven. The _Appassionata_.

_Ah. I've never heard it.

_You will.

You try to smile. And hope it's true. You've lived your life by moments in that horrid place. And in that moment, you're thankful to speak with him again.

_You don't look well, he says.

_Neither do you, you try to laugh. It's a dry breath. You feel dizzy.

He goes over to his bed and takes something out of his pillowcase. A piece of bread. He had been saving it, in case the door never opened again. Now he begs you to eat it. And slowly you do. You take his hand when you've done. He lets you pull him close. Your lips brush against his ear as you whisper:

_I need you to promise me something.

_What?

_If they come for you first, don't tell them anything. You understand me? Nothing.

_H-how?

You reach a hand up to cradle the back of his head.

_Listen. In here.

His lip trembles.

_What if I can't? It's been getting weaker. Today was the first day in weeks I remembered the _Appassionata_.

_You must try. Promise me?

_I will.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

The day they stop feeding you is the day it will happen. Somewhere deep inside, you know they're coming for you first. You know The Man Behind the Desk. You know he will give you one last chance to save yourself. Salvation through dishonor. Redemption through betrayal. It's what it always comes down to.

You stand beside the Austrian against his wall and watch the door. You hold his hand, wishing you had not eaten his last piece of bread.

_Do you trust me? your breath whispers against his cheek.

He looks at you. And nods.

You kiss him one last time.

They come for you at midnight.

The half hour of sleep you managed to scrounge is all you'll be given. The same with him. He will spend the next hours in futile worry.

The guards lead you down the corridor, your feet slapping against the linoleum make no echo. You do not exist.

You're set to proceed straight to the interrogation room, but they grip your shoulder, making you turn. And don't let go. The reason why becomes apparent soon enough.

You try to remain calm. You should have expected something like this. They want you softened up and willing. You try to remain calm, but your feet drag on the last stairs, drag on the cement floor. The guards pull you by your arms.

They throw you in a cell and it's pitch black. And hot. Smells of the acrid odor of burning tires. You've heard about the rubber rooms from one or two of your old cellmates. About how time seems suspended. Night or day, one hour or twenty, none of it matters. You _exist_ in the darkness.

You start to panic. You can't help it. You may have been there five minutes. You may have been there five days. They feed you, though the intervals are no means of measure. Your body is always hungry. Your body is always exhausted.

Your mind whirs with nothing but static. You chase yourself around in circles with worry worry worry about him.

Him.

 _Him,_ you think.

You remember him. You draw his face over and over again in your mind. A beacon. Butterfly lips and whispers. Gentle, airy hands...

 _How do you pass the time?_

You remember and you remember and you remember.

They never should have left you alone with your thoughts.

You think you hear music.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

They drag you out, hold you up by your elbows to get you to stand. The light is disorienting. You squint and can hardly see five feet in front of you. Should have worn your glasses. You'll be blind one day.

You're taken up to the interrogation room. The Man is there. Behind his Desk. Beige folder on top. Tape-recorder ready.

They seat you at the table, in the chair with the brown and tan weave. The special cloth under the seat. You're already sweating from the rubber room.

_Do you have what we require, One-two-eight?

You squint over at The Man, hoping your eyes will adjust soon.

The Man taps a finger. Impatient.

_One-two-eight?

You pick your head up to show you are listening.

_Do you have what we require?

He taps his finger again. On the beige folder.

A man behind a desk is just a man. Put a uniform on him and suddenly he thinks he's God. He likes to remind you in case you forget.

But you haven't forgotten. You've known all along. He's not God. He is a man. Full of the same faults and sins as any other. And you know his sin. Have known it intimately. His sin is the same as yours: Pride.

Every word you ever wrote, every article you ever published was filled with nothing but your own ego. And your ego never fit into the system. You were not your brother. You were not your mother. You were the defective one. The curious one. Always tempting. Always poking and prodding that sleeping dog until one day it bit back, hard. Your arrogance made you, just as it unmade you. It was your own pride that led to your downfall. They stripped it away, leaving you with nothing but shame.

And though you may not be able to strip away The Man's pride, you can certainly wound it. (Stick the knife in and twist, so the cut never heals).

_One-two-eight. We're waiting.

You glance at the beige folder. The one that is and is not Ludwig.

_Do you have what we require?

 _Forgive me, brother._

_...No.

The Man's face blanches.

_I'm sorry, but could you repeat that?

_I said no. I don't have it because there is nothing to have.

_And why is that?

_He's innocent. You got the wrong man. Put it down as a clerical error.

You look at The Man. He is more infuriated than shaken. And you are ready to strike.

You laugh at the look he gives you. You laugh and laugh.

_What are you doing? Stop that! Why are you laughing?

He glances at the guards, thinking maybe you've lost it.

_It's just so funny! you gasp.

_What is - I don't -

_You are!

A small look of comprehension flits across his face. You stop laughing now. Your face deadly serious.

_All this time. I've been playing you. It's so obvious. How did you not see? The special treatment...the special favors...

The Man's face is deep maroon.

_You are to disregard that! he shouts to the guards. He presses a hand to his forehead, starts to pace.

_Leave us the room. And disregard _anything_ this prisoner has said!

The hand strikes you the minute the door closes.

_You're lying!

_No. I'm not. For once, I'm telling you the truth.

The Man growls in frustration and smacks you again, knocking you from your seat. You fall, hands and knees, to the floor. He picks you up by the collar of your jumpsuit, presses you up against the wall, sinks a fist into your stomach. You double up, coughing for air.

_You never should have given me one pretty enough to fuck, you manage to say. _I only led you on because I finally had something good. What would your superiors think, huh? Waste of time...waste of resources...all because you let a prisoner become your pet. All because you had _me_ doing _your_ job. You should have let me go to trial.

_Enough!

He sinks his fist into your stomach again. But you grin as you regain your breath, eyes shifting over The Man's shoulder and onto the desk. He follows your gaze. Sees the microphone on the table, the tape still spinning in the cassette.

_You're getting careless, you whisper against his ear. _Remember, they'll know if it's been tampered with. Even _you_ are not above the eyes and ears of the Fatherland. The Austrian is innocent. You and I are not.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You stumble through the door to your cell minutes later, the bolts sliding into place with a grating scrape. You know that's the last time you'll hear that sound. Tomorrow you'll be loaded into a truck marked _Fleisch_ and sent to God knows where. You almost laugh at the thought of it.

The Austrian sees you and rushes over. His hands are at your face. Even the mangled one, the one whose fingers you watched break. It is slowly healing, though not well. It curls into a claw. You take his good hand and press your lips to the palm.

_How long has it been?

_Four days.

You lean against the wall, arm wrapped around your bruised middle.

_Did they come for you?

He shakes his head.

_Good.

You press the back of your head against the wall, notice his lip is trembling.

_What is it?

_It's gone, he says. _I can't...can't hear it anymore.

_Come here, you say, enfolding him in your arms. You hold him and hum, hum the song you heard in the rubber room over and over again, giving him something to hold onto.

At night, as you lie in bed, you reach for his hand.

_Listen to me, you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. _Tomorrow they will come for you.

You feel the hand within yours tense.

_But it's okay. They're going to take you away. For good.

_Where am I going?

_Home.

_What about you?

_I don't know where I'm going. I just know I won't be here.

His breathing becomes shaky.

_I want you to know something, you say.

_What's that?

_My name. It's Gilbert.


	2. Teil II

.

 **Löwenhöhle - Teil II**

 **.**

* * *

You're sent to Cottbus. Sentenced to labor in one of the factories assembling parts for cameras sold in the West. It hurts your eyes, the detailed work. (How you wished you had worn your glasses that day). You learn to let your hands do all the work. (You have quotas to meet and will be thrown in solitary if you don't). Your fingers are nimble, agile. They fit the pieces together. Effortless. (Like typing on a typewriter, or playing a piano). The hours are long. You listen to the music in your head to pass the time. You think it's Chopin. (Time and again, you hope your plan worked).

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You're released in 1987. Almost a decade since you were taken.

You're loaded onto a bus and sent back to Berlin. You're going West.

The government of West Germany bought your release. But rather than elated, you feel disgusted. Nothing but another commodity. A prize for the West and money for the East. The side of the bus may as well say _Fleisch_.

You never _wanted_ to go West. You just wanted a change. For your country. Who knew it would be so easy, you think morosely. All you have to do to get out of East Berlin is go to prison.

You're put in a half-way house until you find work. And when you do, you move out immediately. (You don't like the idea of people watching you).

You rent a flat in one of the poorer neighborhoods. It's all you can afford. And it's near the Wall. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at it, wondering which side you're on.

You think of your brother. Of the father you never knew. Of him.

You buy recordings of Beethoven. And Chopin.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

 **September, 1992**

Your editor wants you to find your voice.

He's a typical West German, you think. You've been working for his paper for two years and still he understands nothing about you. It's hard for you to explain. You've tried before. But still. He just doesn't _get_ it. (You had a voice once. Had it. And had it taken from you).

There's a letter sitting on your desk one Friday morning. Amid the circulars and postcards and insurance schemes, there's a letter.

It's nothing unusual. You've gotten them before. All manner. Love, hate, corrections, opinions.

But this one makes your hand pause. You recognize the script even before you see the return address.

Your brother's handwriting.

You sink into your desk chair, slip on your glasses, and read.

He wants to see you.

Your stomach freezes when you read that. It's been fourteen years since you last saw him. And though you loved him, you were never like him.

Deep down, you want to see him, too. But part of you is unsure if you're ready. You correspond through letters for almost a month until you finally feel brave enough to phone the flat. After several starts and stops, you manage to dial the whole number, hardly believing he stayed there after all these years. (Strange, the things you remember. The name of your fourth year school teacher, the taste of Vita Cola, your old phone number).

You arrange to meet the first weekend in October. The Day of Unity. You allow yourself a small laugh at the irony of it.

Your feet take you along the familiar route. Your old neighborhood is the same and yet not. New construction and western cars parked beside Trabis. American denim and fast food.

You ride the lift up. Your knuckles rap softly against the door. You half hope he won't answer, though it's all been arranged. And your brother is nothing if not punctual. The door opens before you even finish knocking.

A face - one you haven't seen in fourteen years - peers down at you. You manage a half-grin, and he scoops you into a bear hug, burying his face in he crook of your neck. You lift your arms up, hug him back, breathe in his smell. He still wears the same cologne.

He straightens up, invites you in. His eyes are moist, as are yours. You swipe a hand over them and shoulder past. You take in your old flat. You hardly recognize it as you wander from room to room. He's kept a few things, but like everyone else in the East, he's learning to welcome the West. Your room, however, remains unchanged. He's kept it clean, hasn't locked anything away or used it for storage. Your typewriter sits on your desk, along with your notebooks. You flip one open, fingers ghosting over penciled script. Your handwriting. It looks so young. It sounds funny, but really you have no other way to describe it. It looks young. Or maybe it's just the memories.

An irrational anger comes over you. You suddenly find yourself wishing he'd used your room for storage; sold your things and piled it full of boxes and winter clothes. Why did he keep it? Any of it? You are not that person anymore. (Are you?)

You leave the room, swallowing around a lump in your throat, and see your newspaper lying on the coffee table.

_You haven't lost your touch, he says, seeing you looking at it.

_Tell that to my editor. Wessies wouldn't know subtlety if it bit them in the ass.

He puffs out a laugh and sits on the couch, sliding the paper towards him.

_I've been reading it since...you know, things opened up. It's the only one I read anymore. And when I saw your name, I...I thought, maybe...

He heaves his square shoulders up and down.

_I didn't think you'd still be here, you say. _I thought...surely, you'd have gone.

_...I kept it. In case you ever came back. So you'd know where to come.

You sit on the couch, rest your elbows on your knees.

_They took me west.

He looks at you and nods.

_I didn't think...didn't _know_ if...whether or not you'd want to see me. I know we never really saw eye to eye.

You puff out a laugh.

_I know. You're still the bureaucrat.

_Trying to be, he smiles.

_Adjusting?

_...A bit. You?

_Yeah.

You look at your hands.

_...I heard they had, um, opened up the records. So, you know, people could...could see what -

He sighs.

_Gil...

_You don't think we have a right to know?

He looks at you. Stern blue gaze. Though he's younger, he's always seemed older.

You shake your head.

_Right. Sorry. You've always had that for God and country thing going. Ever loyal. Even though it no longer exists. Mom would be proud -

He presses his fingers to his forehead.

_Can we not do this, Gil? Please?

You twist your hands.

_Why do you want to know? he asks.

_Morbid curiosity, you smirk. (To see whether his name was really on that folder. To find the Austrian...)

The look on his face is unimpressed.

_I don't know, Lutz. All right? I don't know. It's something...I feel like I need to see.

_Why? You lived through it. Isn't that enough?

You shake your head. It isn't enough. Yes, you lived through it (continue to live through it those nights you cannot sleep). And it isn't enough. It will never _be_ enough. And a small, spiteful part of you wishes he had experienced it too, to understand what it means.

_Look. I know I was an idiot. I know I should have tried harder. Tried to be like you. And mom. I know whatever happened to me, I brought on myself. I've accepted that. I know it's hard for you to understand, but...I thought I could change it. Change the way things were. And there are just...some things I need to know. And I want you there, with me. I _need_ you there, Lutz.

_...Why?

_Because it's important to me, you say. (You don't know if you can face it by yourself. He is all you have).

He relents.

You pick a day. And go there. Ask for your file. You're given a box. In it are thick beige folders, tracing your activity since you were a university student, and a small jar with a square of cloth - a sample of your sweat.

Your brother looks away, down at his hands clasped on his knees. He fidgets beside you as you flip through folder after folder until you find the one you're looking for. You open it and begin to read.

He stands, muttering something about getting a drink of water.

You see the names of the accused. The ones whose lives you helped ruin. Those faces you've tried to forget. You were a victim. And a perpetrator. So too were they, in all likelihood. Still, it doesn't forgive what you did.

Your eyes blur and burn. You take off your glasses, pressing your fingers to your eyes and glad, for the moment, your brother is not there.

You continue reading until you find another name. _His_ name. You feel your breath leave for a few heartbeats. You stare at it. Memorize it. Get out a small notebook and pen and jot it down just in case.

You find the transcript from your final interrogation. Most of it has been redacted. There are notes scribbled on the side hinting at your deceit, your perverted nature. Down at the bottom is a note explaining the edits. It suggests the tape recorder was faulty and should be sent for repair.

Clipped to the transcript is a statement recommending your sentencing and the release of the Austrian due to an overlooked clerical error.

You shut the folder. You don't need to know anymore. Don't need to read anymore. Like your brother said, you lived through it.

Your throat is tight.

You pack the folders back in the box, surprised to see him sitting beside you. There is a folder in front of him, open. He looks at it, looks at you. You read the name, see the black and white surveillance photo clipped to the first page.

His folder is nowhere near as thick as yours.

_...I never knew.

His voice is a whisper.

In that moment you see all of his faith in the system, all of his loyalty to the country-that-was, fall apart.

You put a hand on his shoulder.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

 **Vienna, 1993**

You've found him.

After nearly half a year of weekend trips and telephone calls, you've found him.

He's a professor now, and you think it suits him. Teaches music history at the University of Vienna. You travel down in late spring and sit in on one of his lectures. You don't know if he even wants to see you. You think maybe you should have written, or at least phoned, giving him the chance to reject you. But the fact remains: you _need_ to see him.

The lecture hall is big, filled with at least a hundred students. They chatter on noisily, waiting for the lecture to start. You see him come in from one of the side entrances. He sets his bag down, takes out a few notes and begins to speak. His voice is soft but it commands everyone's attention.

The lecture lasts an hour. When he's done, he quietly packs up. You slowly approach, waiting as the students disperse. Waiting for him to see you.

He glances up as he shoulders his bag. A startled look giving way to growing recognition.

_Roderich, you say.

His bag drops to the floor.

You try and grin, to set him at ease, your own doubts start to kick back in.

His arms are around you in moments, his hands moving up to cup your face.

_I didn't know you wore glasses, he says.

You bite your lip, let out a breathy laugh. He draws your face to his, kissing your lips.

You break away, foreheads touching.

_Do you still play the piano?

He nods. _Though not as well as I like.

You clench your jaw and take his hand - the one they broke. There are thin white scars over it. Surgery. To set the fingers right again.

_I'm sorry, you breathe against his lips. A tear rolls down your nose, clinging to the tip a moment before dropping to the floor.

_Don't be.

He kisses you again.

_I owe my life to you.

You shake your head, puffing out a self-deprecating breath.

_If you only knew...

_Gilbert, he says, stroking a thumb over your cheek, _I knew. I knew what they wanted from you. And I know why you did what you did.

_Can you forgive me?

_There is nothing to forgive. You saved me.

You collapse against him then, your legs too weak to support you.

He holds you, stroking his fingers through your hair as you weep.

 **. . . _ _ _ . . .**

You move in with him. You quit the newspaper and move to Austria. Your editor doesn't understand why. Your column was the most read in the former East neighborhoods. Your brother wants you to reconsider. Thinks it's too far. (Thinks he's losing you again). Even proposed getting a new flat in Charlottenburg. Thinks it's memories of the East that haunt you at night. You've tried to tell him it doesn't matter anymore, that the whole city haunts you now, that there are things that are familiar and different and don't quite fit and you've tried to reconcile it in your head, you really have, but every time you walk down the street, there's something that jumps out at you. This city isn't your city anymore. And you need to get away from it. To forget what it ever was. You promise to write and phone and embrace him one last time before you board your train. He watches from the platform as it takes you away. You press your forehead to the glass and look at him, his square shoulders becoming nothing more than a speck.

You watch the city recede, your heart growing lighter and lighter at the yawning distance. You can no longer see it. And you begin to forget. Forget the place you left. Replace it with anticipation of the place you're going to.

It's night when you arrive in Vienna. The autumn air, crisp. He meets you on the platform, breath puffing out in little clouds. You throw your arms around him, nuzzling against his warm neck. He smiles as he reaches a hand up to stroke through your hair. He takes you home.

You get a job. Writing for a magazine this time. The deadlines aren't as hectic and you're not limited by word count. It's different. Freer. Or maybe you are. Either way, you find you enjoy it.

He plays piano in the evenings. Chopin. Beethoven. You take a break from your work long enough to listen. Long enough to remember.

He comes in the study when he's done, a cup of tea in either hand. He places them on your desk, wraps an arm around your shoulders, and kisses your cheek.

You know he loves you. And you, him.

.

.

.

 ** _~ Ende ~_**


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